


Hopscotch and Bal Musette

by Tournevis



Series: The Dancing Suite [3]
Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: A host of historical figures, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bicycles, Dancing, Dubious Science, Established Relationship, F/M, Historically Accurate, M/M, Murder Mystery, Paris (City), Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Medicine, Period-Typical Science, Period-Typical Sexism, Poisoning, Spiritualism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2019-08-02 00:37:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16294973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tournevis/pseuds/Tournevis
Summary: When faced with strange happenings and inexplicable poisonings, former Police Detective William Murdoch and all-around genius James Pendrick see their new Paris life turned upside down. They must turn to uncertain allies and use all resources at their disposal to solve this mystery before someone loses their life. Could this all be linked to the sudden arrival of long-lost friends in the City of Lights?





	1. 1. James

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CameoSF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameoSF/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Different Style of Dancing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1359208) by [Cameo (CameoSF)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CameoSF/pseuds/Cameo). 



> This is the third and final story in _The Dancing Suite_ , a follow-up to Cameo-SF's marvelous _A Different Style of Dancing_ series. Though it is not essential to have read Cameo SF's series or my previous installments to understand this story, you'll enjoy them more if you do. Do yourself a favour, go read their series if you have not done so already. Go now. Go ahead; I'll wait right here.
> 
> What you need to know: William Murdoch and James Pendrick have been in a relationship since shortly after Julia Ogden left Toronto for Buffalo. They had quite a few adventures, including the return of Sally Hubbard and that of James Gillies. In the fall of 1899, they were forced to flee Toronto for fear of being arrested for sodomy and made their way to Paris in the spring of 1900. This story takes place in automn 1901.

Of course, James Pendrick was not one to dwell too much on past travails. The Future, and how diligent work in the Present would bring it forth, was entirely more interesting. Ordinarily, that is. In the aftermath of the Gillies Affair, as he privately called it, Pendrick was forced to admit that specific portions of the recent past occupied a disproportionate part of his thoughts. Thankfully, he no longer felt torn apart by those horrible events, by all he had lost. He had found his way out of the dark places he’s allowed himself to inhabit this time last year. Now, on most days, he rooted himself firmly in the present. It would be the hight of hypocrisy to claim that all was well, but for the most part, he was in good spirits.

James Pendrick, formally Toronto’s greatest civil engineer and once millionaire, was now a near anonymous forensic specialist working in the underfunded or overlooked commissariat of the yet-developping neighbourhood of La Chapelle, in Paris’s tawdry 18th arrondissement. A far cry from Canada’s rich and famous. Though this lowly condition should have brought his self-image to its knees, Pendrick had found a kind of solace here that had eluded him in Canada. In Paris, he had found solace and certainty in someone other than himself.

He viewed it as personal growth. Before, even in his happiest days with William in Toronto, Pendrick never entirely trusted that he’d build his entire future with the love of his life. Even with the wedding rings they both wore around the neck, even with the promises they’d made and the difficulties they’d conquered, Pendrick had never fully banished the idea that he would find himself alone again. Perhaps because prison would separate them. Perhaps because public opprobrium would prevail. Or simply, perhaps, because William Murdoch would no longer wish to live a life his God deemed a capital sin and would leave him to save his immortal soul.

But William Murdoch hadn’t gone. Quite the opposite. William had nursed him back to health through the bleak winter in that godforsaken French Canadian village, while his injured shoulder festered only lightly less than his mood. As fugitives, William had stuck to his side, steadfastly, got him through the darkest times in the previous year, when neither of them could even find comfort in the use of their real names.

Now, they were living legally in the City of Lights, using pseudonyms, yes, but only to facilitate their work for the Gendarmerie. Their future was assured and their almost-marriage strong.

It was simply that their life was now so small! There resided his issues. James Pendrick was not used to small. He was a visionary, a genius. He’d been one of the world’s most promising inventor. His misplaced trust in Sally Hubbard had cost him his fortune, but not his greatness. His biggest flaw, trusting those who showed similar enthusiasm in invention, would certainly have led him further astray without Murdoch’s guidance. They were stronger together, but the glory that was his due, the thrill of world-wide recognition, the accolades befitting his successes would now be out of reach, likely forever. He and Murdoch would be together until the end, of that he was certain, but at the cost of anonymity, at the expense of renown.

Some days, it made the walls too narrow, his skin too tight.

But he could live with it. He would live with it. James Pendrick could weather anything. With William Murdoch at his side, he could win at anything, even a small life.

Which is why he and Murdoch were currently cloistered in their dank “office,” a room at the back of the commissariat’s stables, ignoring the stench, attempting to use refraction and precision photography to distinguish finger marks on a piece of curved smoked glass taken from a murder scene, so they could send them for identification by Alphonse Bertillon’s Signaletic Service at Headquarters. The air was proving entirely too dusty for their purpose. They could see the cursed finger marks, but they remained obscured and out of focus.

“We need a lens with a higher vergence,” Murdoch grumbled.

“Obviously,” Pendrick responded with equal frustration, pulling out his new copy of Molesworth’s _Pocket-book Formulae_ , flapping its tiny pages to the correct section. “If we give Guillaume a request for a specific lens with a precise convecture, he might convince Pontailler to pay for it, without going to Bertillon.” The Pocket-book’s binding was not yet quite broken in, the only thing he missed about his old copy. It had finally given up the ghost soon after they took their position here, a year ago, when a thick section had flown out of his hands directly into an odorous puddle of horse urine. Finding a replacement had proven more difficult than expected. They had discovered that of the half-dozen engineering bookstores the city housed, none carried books in English, only French and German. Of those two general bookstores which sold to readers of the English language, only one had agreed to track down a copy. It was not even the latest printing, but rather the 1886 edition, used. Pendrick did not mind. He had procured his original 1872 copy un adolescence, when he’d first discovered a passion for large-scale engineering. This was an expanded and revised version, without having gained much bulk. It lived in his inner jacket pocket. This Pocket-book was already heavily annotated, with inserts and marginalia in his own hand, copied from his ruined edition. Flipping to his notes on lenses, tucked in the section on curvature formulae, he handed the book to his companion.

This. This is what made life worth living. His partnership with William Murdoch. Waking with him in his arms in the morning, blearing-eyed but smiling. Sharing meals, looks, touches. Loving. Marvelling, every day, every moment, at his keen intellect and intractable focus. Like now, Murdoch was deftly juggling equations, writing figures in his perfectly neat hand, arriving at the correct answer as always. In this glowing presence, how could anyone not experience wonder, delight, love? Desire this man?

Putting away their equipment and the evidence files strewn about allowed Pendrick to gaze upon his lover at several angles. From the evidence cabinet, the curve of William’s biceps, bulging under his rolled-up sleeves. From the microscope shelf, the surety of his hands – how he cherished these hands! From the photography nook’s curtain, the width of the man’s shoulders, the taper of his back at the waistline. And lower still.

But now was not the time for such carnal thoughts. “The Lab,” as everyone at the station called it, was for solving mysteries, criminal and scientific both. Setting up the workspace at the onset had been expensive, but Quai des Orfèvres has footed the bill with minimal fuss, thanks to Bertillon’s support. However, any additional equipment had since required endless forms and requisitions, the reams of paper French bureaucracy was famous for. Their own wages didn’t go very far, but it often happened they had to pay for what they needed out of pocket, then hope for reimbursement later.

Murdoch arrived at the correct refraction index and focus length just as Pendrick closed the last drawer. In that instant, Provisional Investigator Marcel Guillaume popped his head through the door way, shouting in English: “Hop hop! You’re needed!” before disappearing from view.

How Guillaume annoyed them both! While the man was an undeniably excellent detective, he was the hight of arrogance to those few yet under his supervision. He was earnest and deferential towards his hierarchical superiors. But to his subordinates, he fancied himself the unerring authority. Said subordinates included Murdoch and Pendrick, unfortunately, even has they both had once been his obvious superiors, if not in position, at least in experience. Patrolmen and Guardians of the Peace out of the station took Guillaume’s superiority with resigned equanimity, as if it was perfectly expected. For Pendrick and Murdoch, however, Guillaume’s unquestioning self-assurance, the man’s unshakable certainty, grated a little more every day. Pendrick knew, in the privacy of his thoughts, that part of his own reaction was fuelled by his self-image, still bruised from their flight from Toronto. He could not deny his instinctual recognition of the lesser parts of himself in the soon-to-be-Inspecteur. But the man was not yet one, let alone a Commissaire, even if he already acted as such. Nor was he a detective genius like William Murdoch, who Pendrick knew to be Guillaume’s true superior in every way that counted.

So it was with a groan and a knowing look that Pendrick and Murdoch fastened their sleeves, put on their jackets and hats, grabbed their “murder bags,” and took their bicycles to follow their hierarchical superior’s light carriage northward on rue Philippe-de-Girard, toward the city wall.


	2. 2. William

Murdoch was puzzled. They were heading directly to the Thiers fortification wall. As they approached, they made their way through a smaller civilian gathering than expected to join two Guardians of the Peace from their station, Leroux and Varney, beside whom they dropped their bicycles. Dark blue frocks and white sticks on display, the two stood keeping the crowd back along the boulevard. Still, the obvious reason the onlookers were fewer and more orderly than usual were the some ten soldiers from the nearby bastion, armed with bayonetted rifles. They were standing guard close behind the fence marking the Military Exception Zone, which ran parallel to the high stone fortifications that circled the entire city, footed by a pock-marked military road used for troop transport.

Murdoch and Pendrick followed Guillaume closely. The former addressed him in French, so as to keep public the procedures from that point on: “Is the army giving us this case? Why?”

“It seems that even the soldiers know we’re the experts here! In any case, the victim is civilian.” Guillaume smirked and jumped the rickety fence, expecting to be followed.

“Are we sure it’s a crime?” chimed Pendrick in his heavily accented French. He really did sound like an American when speaking Molière’s tongue. Murdoch found it quite endearing.

Pointing to an open, flat area hidden by brambles, Guillaume shot back, “Certainly looks like it to me!”

Murdoch and Pendrick approached, careful not to smudge possible tracks left in the yellow Parisian soil. The Provisional Investigator was right, the scene was gruesome enough to count as suspicious. Murdoch crossed himself, sending a prayer for the lost soul left alone on the ground. Then as one, the _Canadiens_ reached inside their murder bags; Murdoch pulled a magnifying glass and a measuring gallon, while Pendrick took a notebook and pencil.

Murdoch could not lie, he loved this! Despite the gruesome circumstances, he was in his true element: he circled the body slowly, eyes sharp, voice certain, stating out loud the details of import for Pendrick to write down. The body lied nearly halfway between the Porte de la Chapelle-Saint-Denis and the Porte d’Aubervilliers, two meters off the military road. The male, moustached and in his early 1930s by the looks of him, was prone on his front, his right cheek in the dirt, right arm extended, hand apparently pointing toward the railroad track that crossed the wall into the train passage less than 20 meters away. The deceased was in a frightful state: face and hands covered in angry rashes, eyes looking forward, bloodshot and frozen open in death, mouth bloody, clothed ragged, hat missing. Murdoch asked gendarme Massot who’d been trailing them with the camera to take a photograph of the entire body and a close up of the head. Marcel Guillaume, standing five meters away on a foldable footstool, called out for the man to also take a photograph of the deceased’s point of view. “Might at well record what he was looking at.” Murdoch nodded in agreement.

A perched Marcel Guillaume at a crime scene was not an unusual sight. He claimed that a higher vantage point allowed him to take in the entirety of an incident site. He’d been known to barge into some citizen’s upper floor apartment to look upon the aftermath of brawls to murders to demonstrations. Here in the military exception zone, a short stool was the best he could manage, but as with everything Guillaume aimed to lord over all his purview. He started dictating his observations to gendarme Braun who stood below. Murdoch paid them no mind ––they would discuss the case together and compare notes later at the station –– and he kneeled at the corpse’s head, joined by Pendrick. The latter spoke under his breath, in English. “This is strange. I know he looks like he was trying to crawl toward something, but his face is frozen in fear.”

Murdoch shot a scolding look at his partner for his choice of language and responded louder in French, “You’re right. He could have been crawling away from something.”

Standing, they walked four steps to the body’s feet. The gravelly dirt had been disturbed in a clear path, which they followed for approximately 15 meters, leading in a broad curve toward the fortification. “It looks like he dragged himself from the here to there and then simply stopped... What is that?” Murdoch hurried to the limestone wall, Pendrick at his side.

Hand prints. The stone was covered with pairs of trailing bloody hand prints, as if someone had tried to climb the vertical surface and shredded his hands raw in the process. “What was he doing?” asked Pendrick.

Murdoch’s insides liquified. The circumstances of this death proved darker by the minute. “The question is what was he trying to escape?”

They turned as one hearing the ambulance arriving. They were running out of time. Murdoch placed a reassuring hand on his partner’s partner’s shoulder. “Can you make a diagramme of the entire scene, please? I’ll go back to the body. I want to look at it more before they take it away.” Handing Pendrick the measuring gallon, he quick-marched back to where Guillaume was readying to turn the corpse on his back. Murdoch extended his hands to help. “Prêt? Sur le compte de trois.”

On three, they rolled the body. Lividity had set in and the man’s left arm stayed rigid on his side, his head at an angle. The deceased’s frightful state was in clear evidence. The dead man was wearing a dark grey suit of the kind worn by the Nouveau Riche. The front shirt and collar were dotted with dried blood and what looked like a greening yellow fluid as was the dirtied beige waistcoat. “Perhaps bile or vomit,” Guillaume mused. The Investigator patted the body’s sides and pockets, finding a broken smoking pipe, some tobacco, quite fine, a once-white handkerchief, but no wallet, nor watch. On a hunch, Murdoch inserted his fingers in the watch pocket of the waistcoat, finding a folded over calling card, which said:

Pierre Deullin, éditeur.

_Sciences occultes, spiritisme, théosophie._

Rue de Savoie, 3.

Guillaume gave the former detective a fond smile: “Well, we know who we’ll be visiting this afternoon, don’t we! Now Massot, photograph the face, will you.”

Once that was done, and the ambulancemen were taking the corpse away for examination, Marcel Guillaume announced he wanted to speak to the boys who’d found the body. Murdoch felt a pang at his side. Less than two years ago, it would have been him that would have approached the two very young lads, barely old enough to wear shorts, holding onto a gaunt woman’s skirts, perhaps their mother or an aunt. But no longer a detective, he had to contend himself to physical evidence, to the prosaic. Banking down his jealousy, he resolved to look in the direction where the body was pointing, toward the railway tracks.

For the first four or so meters from where the body had lied, the ground revealed nothing unusual, dried leaves and random stick were strewn about, bits of decayed labels and slivers of torn advertisements, a flattened and rusting food tin. But then the vegetation grew denser, first with taller grasses, then with nettle bushes. Two things were obvious to his eye. Firstly, someone had been here recently to harvest nettles, likely in the early morning. More than a dozen plants had had their leaves freshly cut, the stalks still seeping sap, and the tall grasses were broken and flattened all around. Someone had walked about in search of the best leaves, then left in a clear path leading directly to the perimeter fence. Murdoch knew that many older ladies in the neighbourhood, including his neighbour Madame Meyer used nettle infusions to sooth their aches due to rheumatism. This particular scene was not, therefore, suspicious. Secondly, however, another path was obvious from his current viewpoint. One, perhaps two persons had also made their way through the vegetation, this time in a direct line from the railway tracks, only to stand side by side near the nettles but far enough away not to get stung. Indeed, two sets of prints were clear in ground where the soil was slightly damp and had preserved the shape of their shoes. Two men. They had stood there, looking towards where the deceased had been found, not moving around much, then seemingly they had left through where they had come.

For an instant, his near perfect memory provided him with an image of the last time he’d walked through grasses in search of clues to a crime. Two years ago in Toronto, when James Gillies had taken his lover. Turning, he looked back to see Pendrick was safe and sound, measuring the hight of the topmost handprints left on the fortification wall. Dismissing his momentary flutter of panic, Murdoch realized that from this position, whoever had stood in the grass had had a perfect view of not only the crime scene, but almost all the way to the Porte des Aubervilliers. A perfect vantage point, but also a somewhat hidden one. If, as he thought, the events took place the previous night, and if these men were crouching, the deceased might not have seen them at all. But the deceased had seen something. He had been reaching for something, had he not?

Knowing he could not answer these questions yet, Murdoch gave a last look to his lover then turned his attention back to the ground, concentrating on finding what evidence was left behind. He chose to preserve the path by walking half-a-meter to the right of it, using his hand to bend the grasses slightly so they would not block his view. He reached the stone wall flanking the rail tracks in minutes without finding anything of import. The wall was not as high here than farther toward the boulevard, barely two meters high, soil and mulch having accumulated along it. In this spot, someone would not have found it difficult to climb over it, something Murdoch demonstrated to himself post haste. Jumping just enough to find purchase, he pushed himself on top it to look over. The railway tracks were some three meters below, but someone with a ladder could have climbed up this way quite easily.

But why? Why not simply make their way from the boulevard. It’s not as if the military zone was respected, on either side of the fortifications. The shacks and houses built on the zone outside the walls numbered in the hundreds. On this side, chickens, children and old ladies passed through regularly, despite the efforts of the soldiers on guard. So why risk the train tracks? What in the world had happened here last night?

He needed to find a woman about nettles.


	3. 3. James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nettles are prickly.

Murdoch was walking back at a brisk pace. Marcel Guillaume was conversing with a military officer, the body already gone. Pendrick himself was done with the site diagramme and was presently spooling his measuring gallon. He would transcribe the information onto larger paper back at the station, adding what details Murdoch had gathered. But now, Murdoch walked with intent. He stopped a couple meters back from the gathering, scrutinizing. Guillaume noticed too, nodding ascent, but continued his own conversation. Picking up both evidence bags, Pendrick joined his partner. Something was up.

Despite the many disadvantages of their lowly positions within the Gendarmerie, the fact of the matter was, they were afforded quite a bit of independence. So long as their paths of investigation did not directly interfere with Guillaume’s – and as long as they reported their findings promptly – Pendrick and Murdoch could essentially do whatever they deemed necessary to bring cases to a close. After all, the entire point of their working at La Chapelle was to test if their detecting approaches could work within Paris’s modernizing Criminal Police system.

As it was, it did not take long for Murdoch to focus in on an elderly woman, stooped and perhaps worried. Presenting himself with his pseudonym, William Gagnon, he asked her about picking nettles. The elderly lady, a Madame Branchu, was among the few onlookers remaining at the scene after the body was taken away. She had stared at both him and Guillaume, pointedly, for as long as she’d been there. When Pendrick approached, she indicated she didn’t think she liked the company, turning her nose at the soldiers still on site. Not a particularly surprising comment. As with a majority of the elderly working classes in the city, she was suspicious of the military, remembering all too well how government troops had massacred their brothers, husbands and sons during Paris’s many failed revolutions in the last half-century. Their own neighbour, Madame Meyer, was much the same and equal in her own losses.

Seeing the elder lady’s reluctance to speak in public, Pendrick took over the conversation. Giving her his most glowing smile, he suggested they might walk her home. In this field, Pendrick was much better equipped than his partner. His blond hair, gently tanned complection and English-accented French gave him a clear advantage over Murdoch, whose own looks were much closer to the Parisian norm. Madame Branchu blushed and eagerly took Pendrick’s extended arm.

They walked slowly, in deference to her, while he showered her with his charms. She lived close-by on the rue du Pré-Maudit and they reached number 12 in less than twenty minutes. By then, Madame Branchu was giggling like a girl in love. She shared a modest _logement_ with her son’s widow and a host of grand children. The younger Madame Branchu was absent, currently working for the poulterer at the Marché de l’Olive. A ragged-looking teenager met them as they arrived, her hair falling out of a loose bun, holding two siblings by the collar, toddlers attempting an escape by the open front door. The elder Madame Branchu asked her to make coffee for the guests. The girl left the front room, a child under each arm. Then, her grandmother sat heavily and spoke without prompting: “Yes, I saw the body this morning.”

Pendrick stiffened in surprise, Murdoch too. The old woman laughed and patted the latter’s knee with a gleam in her eye. “I am old, dear boys, seventy-two years old! I don’t have time for prevarication, so yes, the man was already dead when I went harvesting this morning.”

Pendrick was charmed all over again. If only everyone were as pragmatic as she! Murdoch’s expression changed as he took in their conversation’s new state. He stated: “Madame, my colleague Monsieur Beckett and I need to know any detail you might remember about this morning. Tell us what you saw, please.”

She adjusted her skirts while choosing her words. “Well, I got up early, at Matins... I mean at about five, the same time as my daughter-in-law. I helped make breakfast – we had yesterday’s soup – and then I left for the wall. One can find nettles in a few places in the neighbourhood, but none are as healthy as those that grow wild near the train passage. I like to go early, when the plants are still wet with dew. It’s easier to choose the best leaves that way.”

“So you arrived at the Thiers wall before six this morning?” Pendrick asked, pulling our his notebook. She nodded her ascent. A time line was emerging.

“Please tell us,” Murdoch prompted, “what did you notice, once you saw the body? Did you walk over to it?”

“Oh! Goodness no! I didn’t want to get involved with the military! Too much trouble there! Once I saw the poor man, I finished my collecting as quickly as I could. Had I known civilians would be involved, perhaps I would have called the police, but I could not know then.” After a deep breath she continued, “There were no insects around the body, no smell, no bloating. It was a fresh corpse, I could tell from a distance. You see, I wash all those who pass on in this street, to prepare them for viewing. I have seen my fair share of the dead in my time. The poor man had not been dead long, I am certain of it.

“Also his eyes. You saw them, Monsieur Gagnon. He died in fear.”

Both Pendrick and Murdoch nodded. There was no forgetting the man’s tortured face. “Beside the presence of the body, did you notice anything else unusual?”

“No,” she added, sounding doubtful. Pendrick guessed she was pondering a different answer. Then, she looked to have reached a decision, perhaps reluctantly: “Yes, one thing. This.” From the folds of her apron, she pulled a small pharmacist’s jar. There was no label, but the small ceramic container and its cork stopper were in perfect condition, not even scratched. “One can find a lot of things near the wall, but a pot like this is rare. It was left opened and empty, like that, on the ground, where the grasses were walked over.” Turning to Murdoch she added, “You know where, I saw you find the path.”

Pendrick was confused, “And you took the jar. If it was so unusual, why not leave it there for the investigators to find?”

Madame Branchu seemed equally confused, “A jar like this can be useful. It’s a shame to throw them away. I wasn’t going to leave it there for someone else to take. I was going to wash it and put perfumed powder in it, for my grand daughter’s birthday.”

She had whispered the last sentence, since they could hear the girl in question walk back up the corridor with a tray. “Thank you my dear. Please go back to the kitchen now.”

The girl said nothing, but stiffened in displeasure and shot them all a rebellious look before turning and walking off. “Don’t mind her, she’s a good girl, but fancies herself a grown woman. All of fourteen, can you imagine?” Madame Branchu shrugged, “No matter.”

Pendrick searched for a way to ask her for the jar, but the elderly woman surprised them again.

“I guess now you’ll want it, as ‘proof’. Is that the word? To do all sorts of science with it?”

He felt his mouth drop in shock. What did the woman know? She chuckled and waved away their questions. “Oh, dear boys, of course I know all about you two. The _Canadiens_ working for the police. From what I hear, despite everything, you’re probably the only two trustworthy men at the Commissariat, the only ones who are willing to listen and not judge us low folks for our social class when trouble arises.”

It was Murdoch’s turn to blush bright pink and sputter in gratitude as her words sank in on them. Despite everything? That was not quite good news. She had revealed that their hopes for an anonymous police career were as moot as their previous attempts to keep their relationship secret from their neighbours. As police specialists, they had managed to stay out of the newspapers, which was good. But it seemed that word had spread to the populace, far beyond their street, all the way to the other end of La Chapelle, that not only did they work for the Criminal Police, they were also “inverts,” in the polite parlance. Pendrick could not help but laugh at the futility of it all.

“Well, yes, good Madame, in fact we would like to examine it at the station. If you can part with it, of course.”

Still blushing, Murdoch pulled one of his ever-present handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket. “Please.”

The old woman, her swift wit now in full display, hesitated only a moment before placing the small container in Murdoch’s hand. Then she moved to her coffee cup on the tray and changed the subject. Murdoch tried to ask a few more questions about the crime scene, but she would have none of it. “Now, finish your coffees and shoo,” she insisted. “You have a killer to find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love old ladies. They know everything and have no social filters. Love them so much!


	4. 4. William

The crime scene had been vacated. Two soldiers still stood guard, but the gendarmes had taken the gathered evidence back to the station, along with the bicycles. Murdoch and Pendrick were stranded on the other side of La Chapelle. Walking back at a brisk pace would take some twenty minutes, but it afforded them a little time to discuss the events of the morning. A scant three hours before, they had been fumbling with a glass shard. Now, they were dealing with the most puzzling of deaths. 

Pendrick, as usual, read Murdoch’s mind. “So, are we thinking this is murder? The old lady certainly believes so.” 

“I’m inclined to as well. It’s too early to know for certain, of course. The only violence on the body looked to be self-inflicted, but two men stood for some time in full view of the scene, of that I’m certain. At a minimum, they are witnesses.” Murdoch described the path and shoe prints, the crushed grass beside the train wall. He stopped walking suddenly, turning to his partner: “I sense foul play, but I can’t say in what way.” This is what troubled him the most in the affair. The foreboding. The last time he’d sensed something of the sort, their world had soon been irretrievably turned over. “I have a bad feeling about this.” 

Pendrick chuckled: “And you hate it! We’ll get facts soon enough. Let’s make sure we go with Guillaume to visit the spiritist this afternoon. We’ll get autopsy results tomorrow perhaps. And I’ll add your details to the diagramme when we get back. See? Facts.”

Murdoch felt a smile move to his lips. Of course, Pendrick understood his dilemma. They knew each other so well. “If we have the time, let’s run chemical tests on the jar before we go. Hopefully, there’s residue.”

“Exactly. Facts.” With Pendrick’s hand on his shoulder urging him on, they began walking again. “The question is: are the body’s finger marks still legible? The man shredded his hands trying to climb the wall. I don’t think you saw, but there was flesh imbedded in the stone. It wasn’t just blood.” Pendrick raised a hand at Murdoch’s unasked question. “Yes, I took a sample. A rather large one.” Pendrick’s expression underscored how little he was exaggerating.

“Oh. Well, if the skin you found has a wide enough area, perhaps we could find finger marks ourselves.”

Pendrick’s eyebrows rose in emphasis: “We will.” So the sample was indeed large.

“We’ll have to.” Murdoch shook his head. “I don’t trust Headquarters to do a proper analysis if the fingers are too damaged. They don’t have the motivation. You know how Bertillon is. If it’s too difficult, he’ll tell them to drop it.”

As brilliant as the Signaletic Service system was, Murdoch did not entirely trust it. It left too much room for interpretation. And to prejudice. Back in Toronto, he’d quite successfully used Herschel's and Galton’s research, as well as Vucetich’s methods in dactyloscopy, to complement the Constabulary’s anthropometric files. Bertillon, on the other hand, was adamant that his identification system was infinitely more scientific and precise than ‘puny skin ridges’. He used them for identification if he had to, but remained dubious. He did not think them as foolproof as the more modern anthropologists believed, and as Murdoch knew from experience. The fact finger marks had almost entirely been studied by Germans and Englishmen – and, worse, by Americans and Argentinians! – had much to do with Bertillon’s reticence, not doubt. Not French enough. Adding the fact photographs and concrete measurements were easier to understand for France’s political leaders than epidermal ridges ever could had allowed Bertillon’s system to become fully institutionalized. And there lied Murdoch’s problem. For French-born citizens, measurements were fairly straightforward and often remained unannotated. But those with foreign origins, immigrants and descendants alike, were categorized by type in their files. Some files actually read ‘Gypsy measurements.’ As if all Italians and Germans looked alike. As if all those of the working classes bore the seeds of criminality. On the other hand, finger marks never could indicate race or creed. 

“We’ll convince Bertillon to include them in the signaletic files soon enough. If not him, then Lépine. That’s why he signed off on us. Lépine may be the least humble man in the world, but he’s intelligent enough to recognize when he’s wrong.” Except that Police Prefect Louis Lépine was more interested in order than justice and the Bertillonnage system got convictions. Sadly, the Signaletic Service’s ample files also allowed for wide-scale control of those deemed undesirable. No doubt, soon, every resident of France would have a descriptive file if Lépine got his way*.

They were on rue Pajol, fast approaching the corner of rue Marc Séguin, when Pendrick blurted: “I hate we don’t have time to swing by home. Something tells me we’ll return late tonight. I’d rather get a couple more apples for when we miss dinner.” Even as he spoke, they walked past their street. “So, did it look to you like the man had vomited on his shirt? That’s what it looked like to me, but you were closer.”

“The yellow stains, yes. Perhaps bile? I’m guessing you did not find any puddles of that sort when you mapped out the scene.”

“Nothing, no.”

“Neither did I. It may not be significant, unless it’s indicative of poisoning. I’m more interested in figuring out why the man behaved the way he seemed in the last moments of his life. Toxins. Drugs. Something caused such a response.” Clicking his tongue, Murdoch discarded his current train of thought. “We shouldn’t speculate.”

The men shared a looked and Pendrick broke is a wide smile. “Facts! Only facts for us!”

They were still laughing when they entered the station’s stables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * It did happen, in 1912. The system still exists today! I'm in it! But the files also include fingerprints.
> 
>  
> 
> [Sorry for the short chapter. RL is really sucky with me and I'm can only type so fast.]


	5. 5. James

After reaching the Commissariat’s back buildings, dropping their equipment, putting away the evidence, getting a few bites from their packed lunch, and gathering their files, they weaved their way through the barely controlled pandemonium of the station proper. It was noon-time and the thrum of the men reminded Pendrick of his workshop back in Toronto. It never failed to bring a smile to his lips. Of course, the lunching Gendarmes differed in one important way from his technicians’ and engineers’ midday habits: the heady smell in the air, the broken conversations in between spoonfuls of the ever-present bread-thickened soups the men here consumed, every single day of every single week! Pendrick often wondered why the men did not get bored. To him, the idea of soup as a whole meal rang strange. William never seemed to mind, often referring to his years as a lumberman, even expressing fond memories of the camp cook’s stews, or his mother’s so long ago. James felt more comfortable with the sandwiches they put together for their own consumption, even if their almost daily pick-nicks were rather pedestrian.

Pontaillier and Guillaume flaunted their own pick-nick fare of pâtés, butter, pickles and the whitest of breads, always accompanied by red wine of course. For their part, William insisted on restricting alcohol consumption to off duty times, and James wholeheartedly agreed, a fact their hierarchical superiors found quite amusing. William had reintroduced James to ubiquitous tea, now that they had found a satisfactory seller in Foster’s, owned by a true Englishman who kept a fine assortment of Indian teas rather than the flavourless Ceylon leaves every other importer in Paris insisted on peddling.

Pontaillier and Guillaume were done with their meal, emptying the last of their glasses when the specialists entered the meeting room. James noticed his partner’s crinkling his nose at the crumbs on the table. He hesitated a second too long before moving to deposit their current research files. Guillaume noticed, laughed heartily, and used his own sleeve to swipe the leavings to the floor. William’s mouth pinched, but he placed the evidence on the table without comment.

“So, _les Canadiens_ , what do you have for us?”

Pendrick took the floor, unfolding the _raisin_ -sized* paper showing his draft plan of the crime scene. “We think we have a sense of the timeline and a set of questions that need answering. It’s a start. The autopsy will confirm this, no doubt, but the events must have taken place during the second half of the night, at most a couple hours before five thirty this morning. Our witness, Madame Branchu mère, saw the body on the scene at that time. We think the victim entered the scene of his own volition, but most likely already in a deranged state, from the boulevard, somewhere between these two points.” Pendrick used the stub end of a nib holder to show where he meant on a map of the neighbourhood he’s brought, a point midway into the military exception zone, some ten meters from the Thiers wall. Pendrick moved back to his plan and continued: “The man then walked, not quite in a straight line, toward the wall to its base, where it looks like he tried to climb, bare handed, at three points – here, here and here – he left considerable skin and blood on the stone, as well as leather marks from his shoes.”

Pontaillier looked to have stopped listening the second Pendrick had said the word “deranged” and was growing impatient, sniffing. Guillaume, one the other hand, was rapt, his expression somewhere between fascination and glee. “Continue, James, it’s fascinating!”

“After the third attempt at climbing, the victim shambled to his final location, falling twice along the way. He fell to his knees here, rose and fell again on his front, then crawled to the position he was found in.”

Pontaillier huffed. “Clearly insane!”

“Obviously,” answered Pendrick, “but that is not the issue, Monsieur. This poor fellow was in the throws of great fear, yes, but why? Why would an obviously respectable man – going by his clothing – behave and die this way?”

“Drunkenness knows no class. Perhaps absinth?”

Guillaume raised an assured finger: “Non. Non, Pontaillier, it’s something else. What do you say, William?”

“I don’t know yet exactly what we are dealing with, sirs, but I agree we are not dealing with simple drunkenness. A different type of intoxication, perhaps yes, but sirs: two men witnessed the death. I am certain of that.” Murdoch explained in his precise, graceful way what he had deduced from the easternmost section of the scene, insisting on his conviction that the death had been observed. “Guillaume, can you add anything from your interviews?”

The provisional investigator was about to answer Murdoch when the Commissaire interrupted, getting up: “Guillaume, when you have anything concrete, enough for an arrest, let me know. I have more important things to attend to.” Pontaillier exited the room without so much as a good afternoon. As usual, Guillaume found the Commissaire’s behaviour hilarious, waving a dismissing hand at the now closed door.

“Well, now that we are alone, let’s see. The two boys who found the body didn’t have anything useful to provide. They said nothing contradicting your timeline. Neither did rigor mortis for that matter; it fits. One witness, a woman living in an apartment facing the wall, here is the address, stated she heard a male voice screaming sometime during the night. She did not look at her clock when the noise woke her and went right back to sleep. At this point, we need to find the victim’s identity to go any further.”

It made sense to Pendrick and Murdoch nodded, saying: “Agreed. I don’t think we can go much further until we do. Have the photographs been developed?” At Guillaume’s assent, he continued: “Good, we have something to show those we interview. Are we still going to the Spiritist’s address this afternoon?”

To Pendrick’s eye, Guillaume tensed at the “we”, but recovered instantly, genially adding: “I will be leaving momentarily. You both may accompany me, of course, if you do not have anything else to do. Perhaps you’ll notice something while I ask the questions?”

Once again, the man’s self-importance surfaced. He was a provisional investigator, not the Prefect! James had to stop himself from shaking his head. Of course, Guillaume would be asking the questions. Of course, they would observe, perhaps enquire precisions. Or perhaps they would agree to let Pendrick play the oblivious American again. He did enjoy this particular game quite a bit. So few Parisians thought an American could understand them when they spoke behind his back. True, his own accent was heavy, not needing much effort to make it atrocious. It was a talent neither Murdoch nor Guillaume shared in any case. And Pendrick did relish the clowning around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Before European paper size standards were adopted in the wake of the First World War, France used a host of paper sizes, most with strange names. _Raisin_ paper was roughly in the same order as today’s A3 paper.
> 
>  
> 
> My semester is over! I can type this thing and finish it! Yeah!


	6. 6. William

Number 3, rue de Savoie, was a perfectly common three-story Second-Empire building of yellow Lutetian limestone, with large upper windows and a heavy two-panelled front door and matching curved tympanum. It was nearly identical to all its nearly identical neighbours along the street, of a kind that had fashionably proliferated throughout Paris under Haussmann’s urban development plan in the 1860s. Were it not for the rather humble but modern display windows and glass-fronted door in the leftmost half of the edifice, one would not even notice it at all. _Librairie spiritualiste et moraliste_ , the fascia banner stated in gold: it was a bookstore. And not of the scientific type Murdoch favoured. He looked to James and shook his head, only to hear a snort from Guillaume, who was pointing to the building directly across the street, number 4, and to the brass plaque on its red door, boasting École hermétique, loge INRI, rite Swendenborgien. 

“The only word I understand is INRI and something tells me that’s the only Christian* aspect of the whole organization! This is going to be strange, Messieurs.”

Murdoch could not agree more. Spiritualism had taken Europe by storm in the last two decades, its fashion in London and Paris having spilled over North America. Even the scientifically-minded Arthur Conan Doyle had fallen prey to it, a fact Murdoch has struggled with on the two occasions they had collaborated in Toronto. Believing in One powerful and merciful God was one thing; putting one’s faith in communicating with the Departed was entirely another, let alone trying to harness the invisible energies of the so-called Mother Earth. At least, Doyle had never espoused the more frivolous “theories” promulgated by slightly unhinged souls and charlatans both. And here they were at Spiritualism Central, it appeared. 

“Shall we, Messieurs,” prompted Guillaume as he pushed the store’s door, happy bells chiming.

They were hit by the sweet smell of incense and newly bound books, and the sight of the radiant smile of a bespectacled lady store clerk. She greeted them as she walked away from where she was shelving. Her voice was firm and her gaze decisive in stark contrast to her young age. She was at most twenty years old. Marcel Guillaume looked taken by her in the instant.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, extending his hands to take hers, “What a lovely surprise to see such a beautiful lover of books!” The young woman’s lips pursed ever so slightly, eyes narrowing, but Guillaume ignored her visible reticence. “We would like to speak with Monsieur Deullin. We have heard good things about his work. Is he available?”

Murdoch looked away from the scene, hoping to keep his own exasperation from showing. Couldn’t Guillaume just interact politely with a woman? Did he have to flirt? 

He set his sights on the walls, most of which were covered in bookshelves, mostly filled with already bound books, most of which being paper backs. This detail was telling; Parisian bookstores catering to the wealthy still sold books the old-fashioned way, unbound, which would be custom covered in fine leather by their new owners. There were some hardbound books on display here, but they made up a minority of the stock, which meant the store catered to the middle classes. Those sections of the walls left free of books were covered with posters, showing vaguely Egyptian symbols here or concentric circles there. James walked closer to one titled “Principes de Spagyrie,” on which Murdoch recognized the alchemical symbol for mercury, which looked as if the symbol for Venus had grown horns. Whatever was spagyria?

As far as Murdoch could see, the volumes on offer all pertained to either religion, philosophy, or some pseudo-science. A central table, facing the entrance, displayed stacks of journals, with telling titles like _L’Écho de l’au-delà et d’ici-bas_ (a spiritualist publication if its name referred to the beyond), _L’Hyperchimie_ (whatever that meant), and _L’Initiation_ (about secret societies, perhaps). The highest pile contained thick green-lettered paperbacks by one Jollivet-Castellot, titled _Comment on devient alchimiste_ (how to become an alchemist, truly?). Its preface had been penned by Papus. That name Murdoch recognized easily. He was the most famous so-called occultist in France. 

Papus was a large, loud and thoroughly self-diluted man, claiming to have discovered untold secrets of the universe. They had had the misfortune of attending one of his allocutions during the Paris Exhibition the previous year, under the promise of an expert lecture by a doctor of medicine on the use of base elements. It proved to be a confusing affair about mercury and sulphur, Egyptian gods, Hebrew letters and astrology. The buffoon had appeared on stage with haggard eyebrows and a visibly fluffed greying beard**. They had left the lecture hall after a half hour. Murdoch motioned to James and pointed at the name. He saw recognition in his partner’s eyes, who failed at holding back a smirk. What madness had they stepped into?

His train of thought was interrupted by a short, well-dressed gentleman entering the store from the door to the right side of the counter. The man quietly closed it behind himself, gaze focussing on Guillaume, who still held the clerk’s hands in his.

“Mademoiselle Baussilloz,” he reproached, “Please tend to your shelving.”

The young woman, pulled her hands free, gratefully it seemed, and turned back to her work without a word.

“Monsieur?” the man asked Guillaume, pointedly not offering his hand.

“Are you Monsieur Pierre Deullin? Marcel Guillaume. My friends and I were hoping to meet you. We are recently arrived in Paris and are looking for like-minded people.”

Murdoch presented himself, using his pseudonym and forcing a stronger French Canadian accent. James followed. Deullin had looked uncertain of Guillaume until Murdoch had spoken and was obviously convinced by James’s pronunciation. Their credibility secured – how more foreign could they sound? – Murdoch turned his attention back to the clerk, who was working with practiced concentration, a smirk escaping her ability to keep her expression neutral. Moving a few steps to stand beside her at a polite distance, he saw that those books mostly covered Christian mysticism, though one of them claimed to focus on The Temple of Satan. He clicked his tongue in shock before he could stop himself, which got the young woman’s attention.

She whispered: “So tell me, are you Sûreté nationale or Sûreté de Paris?”

Of course, the clerk had figured it out! Stifling a sigh, he knew then there was little point in dissembling with her. Whether he confirmed it or not, she would no doubt tell her employer of her suspicions. Deullin would learn of the subterfuge one way or another. Might as well be honest. He whispered back: “Police criminelle.”

“Ah.” Her knowing smirk transformed into one of interest as she pushed back her glasses on her slim nose. “Was there a death or is it about money? In either case, I wouldn’t have much information to give you. Secret societies are not open to women, and...” her gaze flicked to Deullin for a second, “Some people don’t think Woman can understand science and mathematics.”

Murdoch had learned very early in his life that one should never underestimate a woman’s intelligence and capacity for reason. He sympathized with yet another frustrated female intellect. Julia’s image flitted in his mind, with its usual pang of regret. But now was not the time. “Would you be willing to look at a photograph, a crime-scene photograph that is, and tell me if you can identify the gentleman therein? You may find it gruesome.”

James, who had moved to their side, reached into his breast pocket, while still playing a gazing at the titles. The young woman nodded her ascent, and took the picture, then glanced again at Deullin, who was thoroughly engrossed by Guillaume’s conversation. She layed it flat against the book she was still holding and looked.

A wave of recognition washed over her face then disappeared, as she passed the image back to James. She nodded firmly. “He was a frequent client. Monsieur Gaucher; I don’t know his given name. Mostly bought publications on spagyria and alchemy.”

That word again! James recognized it as well, and asked if she could recommend a book on spagyria, which one was the most complete. The clerk’s expression turned to either triumphant or conspiratory, Murdoch could not tell, as she guided them across the store, back to shelves under the eponymous poster. She pulled two volumes, one by Paracelsus – whom Murdoch recognized as a famous Medieval alchemist – and another by a Dr. Zimpel. 

“This volume is only available in German, unfortunately.”

James took it from her, stating he was fluent. Flicking to the first page, he translated the title aloud: “ ‘A Medicinal Treasure. New and Old Remedies for All. With Particular Interest to the Spagyric Arts, and Their Application For the Preparation of Extraordinary Medicines, and With Comments on Universal Hermetic Medicine’. That sounds exactly like what we have been looking for. We’ll take it!”

Before Murdoch could add a comment, Guillaume appeared, even genial, asking if they had found something of interest. 

“Oui, Monsieur,” quickly adjusting his train of thought, “A book we didn’t have access to back home. We’ll be buying it, of course.”

And how Guillaume did not appreciate unexpected expenses in his investigations! The latter lecture would be worth it.

“Of course, we will.”

The price of two francs was steep, but this was their only true lead, and it made Deullin so obviously happy to make a sale. Guillaume footed the expense in a manner that would fool anyone but his work colleagues, with an exaggerated grace that hid his disapproval and reluctant resignation.

The book wrapped and paid for, the three men exited the store with a floury of Come-agains and a schedule for public lectures. They walked toward the corner of rue Séguier where the police cab was waiting. They would need to look very closely into occultist and alchemical societies, since no doubt Gaucher was part of the scene. Perhaps the lodge across the street too. Murdoch guessed they would soon arrange to interview Deullin further. To be frank, he was baffled and looking forward to the autopsy results. Answers must be found there. A sense of foreboding filled him once again, an unformed question settling into his thoughts. 

As they reached the street corner, cab in sight, a voice sounded from a few meters back on rue de Savoie, stopping William dead in his tracks. A few footfalls away, a female voice, precious, one he recognized in his very core.

“William?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * INRI is a Latin acronym purported to have been posted atop Jesus’s cross, a sign known as the titulus crucis. INRI is short for _Iesus Nazarenvs, Rex Ivdæorvn_ , meaning Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. The sign is referred to, but not described, in John 19:19 and there is no mention of which language Herod used for it.
> 
> ** Do yourself a favour and search for Papus in Google images.
> 
>  
> 
> Yes, I'm sure you guessed who the voice is! ;P


	7. 7. Julia

The way I remember it, I had been stunned silent. None of my companions are still with us to tell the story otherwise, but I must have made a sound, because I remember him turning around in surprise, looking back at me in recognition. My dear William, alive, healthy, and James beside him, right there in Paris, on the very street we also then stood. 

We were in Paris on the final leg of our medical tour, Paul and Colin and I, meeting with the finest medical minds of Europe in search of a treatment for Paul's ailment; even just a research avenue would have satisfied us. Sometimes who we met were decidedly not the finest minds, if our disastrous appointment with Dr. Gérard Encausse had been anything to go by. What was it with his obsession over base elements? Paul suffered from Huntington's Chorea, not an imbalance in sulphur or an over-abundance of blood mercury! And the condescension of the man! Yes, there are lady doctors, Encausse! We exist!

In any case, I forgot all about the charlatan in an instant and my feet led me right into William's strong arms. Such emotion when he repeated my name. I remember, he smelled of soap and vanilla, looking leaner and fitter than ever before. His skin was clear and even, eyes crisp, hair shiny, no sign of grey. He’d grown a moustache, impeccably groomed, which suited him surprisingly well. Such a relief to see him well, when all I could imagine were the last traumatic hours in Toronto before their flight.

And James, how he looked the picture of health! Such a contrast to the physically broken man I had last remembered. The smile on his face, the glint in his eye. He hugged me just as eagerly; he too smelling of the same sweet vanilla mixture. As he held me, kissing me on the cheeks the French way, I noticed his left arm seemed a bit weaker than the right, a result of the multiple injuries he suffered to it over time. But the difference was slight, most would not have known it. He too was tanned, smiling, every sign of health in evidence. Happiness bubbled into me, I could barely contain myself.

I then heard a gentleman clearing his throat. I recognized the third man with them, that French police inspector I'd met in Toronto a few years prior. Marcel Guillaume was his name. He beckoned us to move around the street corner, where a police cab was waiting. At that moment, William looked over my shoulder, recognized my husband, and extended his. “Doctor Roberts! What a pleasure to see you too. What are you doing in Paris?” 

Both Paul and I hesitated. A street corner was not a fitting place to explain his condition, the reasons behind our tour. Colin spoke: “It is a long and complicated story, best left for more private setting. I’m Colin Harms, Paul’s brother.” He extended an eager hand to my friends. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you. I’m glad to see you well; your absence has been a great worry for my brother and his wife.”

Guillaume cleared his throat again, gaining our attention, but addressing my friends in French: “We must leave; there is much to do.” He turned back to me, giving my hand a kiss, switching to an accented English: “Madame, it was a pleasure to see you are well, but we must go. Police business, you understand.” And nodding to my companions, “Messieurs,” he climbed in the cab, instructing the uniformed driver.

“Of course. Do what you must.” As my friends too walked away, I knew I had a single chance to ensure I saw them again. I called out: “William, we are staying at the Élysée Palace-Hôtel. Do call, we must speak. There is so much to say.”

William acquiesced. James said he knew of our accommodations. They waved goodbye before the cab left our sight. 

The shock of the fortuitous meeting hit me then, erasing all other frustrations of the day. William and James were in Paris! Were well! Safe and employed. I found myself drained suddenly. The emotion of the scant five minutes prior were too much for me. Refreshments were in order. The way my husband looked, the moment had hit him hard as well. Strong emotions were not good for him, inducing tremors, even fever on the worse days. Sadly, we were too far away from my favourite Parisian afternoon tea; did you know, that was all the way in the 4th arrondissement, where the Galleries Lafayette stand now, in fact. 

In any case, we needed fortifying tea, but good French coffee would have to do. Both my husband and his half-brother agreed readily. We had come to Dr. Encausse’s apartment on rue de Savoie directly from the Salpétrière. I knew Paris best of the three of us, but I had not been paying attention to cafés. We were near the river, however, and experience told me there would be food establishments along it.

A few minutes later, we were sat in the sun on a terrasse of a well-appointed café on the Quai des Grands-Augustins. I’ll always remember this conversation. Our realization that what Paul and I had not dared to hope for our friends had indeed come true. They were safe. Colin knew some of this story already, of course, but he’d only joined us on our tour in Germany. He’d not been able to take leave of his position at Zurich’s Polytechnische before then. Our days were busy and there wasn’t much time for reminiscing. We mostly spoke about medical breakthroughs, visiting medical experts and researchers, Paul undergoing examinations. All this was exhausting. After such long days, Paul and I spent our evenings resting in our rooms. We did catch an exhibit here or a play there, but those were rarer as the weeks went by. 

Paul was deteriorating fast. Huntington’s Chorea was inheritable, incurable and relentless, and his case was particularly vicious. His tremors were near constant by the time we reached Paris, spasming fits several times a day, his equilibrium so bad at times, he never went anywhere without his cane. I’d started carrying a round-handled tin tumbler in my bag for Paul; I’d bought it in Munich after he’d dropped three drinking glasses in one sitting, slashing his hand in the process.

The prognostics were dire. We had not spoken of it to Colin yet, but we knew to expect changes in mood and impaired logic to appear soon. But Colin knew, of course. Both men were intimately familiar with the disease, having witnessed their beloved father (step-father for Colin) deteriorate into shakes and madness, like their male forebears had as far back as they knew, though all had suffered for decades. It was a horrible fate, yet it looked like Paul would not have much time. I think I can say now that how things turned out was for the best. At the time, I could not see it. I was still holding on to the hope of finding a medical solution.

Nevertheless, on that afternoon in that little forgettable café, we did not speak of ailments. We spoke of our dear friends to my husband’s dearest half-brother.

“Are they much different than when you last saw them?” Colin asked.

“James appears fully healed, didn’t he, Paul?”

“You would know better than I, but they seemed in good spirits, if stunned to see us.”

“I do very hope they call on us soon. James knew our hotel, didn’t he say. I shouldn’t be surprised considering its fine standing.”

Paul nodded and added for Colin’s benefit: “Did we tell you? James was quite wealthy until a few years ago. Even after he lost his fortune, he was still richer than most of us. I would not be surprised he’s stayed there at some point, though it’s only been open a few years.”

Colin turned thoughtful. “Whatever his fortunes used to be, they’re working for the Parisian Police now. Both of them it seems. I wonder in what capacity.” 

“And investigating on the same street as we were. I wonder who? Encausse? What’s the name he goes by?” 

“Papus!” my companions exclaimed together. Thinking of the bearded fool reminded me of the biggest change in our dear William. “What I cannot believe is the moustache! I’d never imagined it would suit him.”

The conversation devolved into mirth, and for a time we shared memories of our friends with Colin, as we drank coffee and nibbled on flaky pastries. It would prove to be the last of such afternoons for us, and I will never forget it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, the café they went to is Café Dubois, at 15, Quai des Grands-Augustins, which was two minutes walk from rue de Savoie. There's an Irish pub there now, you can see it on Google Streetview.


	8. 8. James

James found himself chuckling. As elated as he was to have found Julia and Paul again, his beloved’s stunned expression was such a giddy sight, he could barely contain himself. William might have been the sharpest, strongest mind in all Paris, an intellect of impeachable logic, but when gripped by strong emotion, the poor man’s brain simply stalled. William knew this – it was the foremost reason he held onto reason so fiercely – but their friends’ sudden reappearance had put a stop to all his thoughts. An endearing sight, to see him so flummoxed. Placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, James asked if he were alright, which always gained his attention.

“What? Yes.” Daze made way to confusion. “Julia and Paul are married. That is a surprise, isn’t it?”

The question had been directed at him but Marcel Guillaume, who’d been observing with a smirk, scoffed in response: “And to think, Gagnon, I counselled you to woe her!”

Back in Toronto, when Guillaume had made the suggestion, James and William had been together for more than a year. So, James ignored him, giving his partner his full attention. “I’ll admit I’m more surprised that Paul has a brother. I don’t remember him even mentioning one.”

“I don’t think he ever did, actually.”

Guillaume’s distaste for being ignored appeared once more and he put a stop to the conversation. “Messieurs. On se concentre,” he snapped. “I’m happy your charming doctor has found you two again, but we are on a case. This will have to wait.”

“Alright, fine. Where are we going?” Pendrick snapped back.

“We’ll be at Quai des Orfèvres in moments. We’re going to Bertillon.”

“Isn’t it premature?”

The provisional investigator shook his head. “I don’t think so in this case. We need details that only surveillance files can provide and his office keeps those now. Beside, he can give the post-mortem a higher priority if we ask and,” pointing at Murdoch, ”you could manage to secure a peek at the body, if we play it right. You have experience in this field that rivals anyone at his office except Bertillon himself.”

Neither Canadian got the opportunity to respond as the cab stopped brusquely in front of the Palais de Justice’s main entrance. They filed out and made their way silently up the winding staircase, all the way to the Service d’identité judiciaire, also know as the Service signalétique, in their rooms tucked under the rafters. The offices were labyrinthine and only those who belonged there could ever find their way around. The trio made their way to the Director’s personal space, a large room filled with chairs in a classroom configuration, with side tables, chalkboards and charts all around*. The curved ceilings and walls, painted stark white, prevented one from feeling closed in, even in the absence of windows. Pendrick and Murdoch had been here a couple of times, at the beginning of their employ as forensic specialists, when their specific responsibilities were still being determined.

Alphonse Bertillon was at his desk and greeted Guillaume warmly, and the Canadians more reservedly. The Frenchman addressed the Director, as was proper, with appropriate deference.

“Monsieur, we’ve come to ask for your opinion in identifying a victim. The pertinent files may have already been brought here this morning, but we now have a name and hoped to consult your archives.”

“Yes, yes. You refer to the body found on the Republican Guard’s turf, is it not? Don’t be surprised. I’ve made certain to be notified directly when any suspicious death occurs in the 18th. So I can keep an eye on your work, of course.”

Pendrick was not sanguine at the surveillance, but there was little choice in the matter; their career in Paris was an experiment, after all. He kept silent, as did Murdoch.

“We appreciate your support. The victim’s last name was...” he asked Guillaume.

“Gaucher. First name unknown,” Murdoch provided. Bertillon frowned.

“Of course, we may not have a file on the name at all; a name alone is not much without proper anthropomorphic description. Especially if you corpse was never arrested or prosecuted... But, we do have have alphabetical files on all those put under police surveillance, and these file would contain biographical information, and anthropomorphic descriptions. Come with me.”

Bertillon rose, left his office without a backward glance, heading through three corridors to door which placard read Fichiers sommiers**. Entering without a knock, he walked straight to a clerk in his shirt sleeves, a man of perhaps twenty-five years, who startled at his supervisor’s sudden appearance. The Director ordered: “Find me a file. What’s the name, Guillaume?”

Murdoch answered, in his clearest accent: “Last name Gaucher, a man in his mid-thirties, brown hair, light complexion, brown irises, moustache.”

Bertillon blinked “I can’t understand you. Could you not learn to speak properly? Besides, that is a woefully vague description. Guillaume, what did he say?”

Pendrick bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from speaking his mind. For all his genius in revolutionizing police investigative techniques, Bertillon was the kind of Frenchman that gave his country its reputation of intolerance and closed-mindedness. There was nothing wrong or difficult with Murdoch’s accent. He was understood by everyone they met in Paris. Murdoch’s French was world’s better than Pendrick’s, but for some unfathomable reason, Bertillon chose to misunderstand the former detective. Only William Gagnon. The poor clerk, who have obviously understood everything too, was waiting on the Director’s ascent to start his search.

Guillaume repeated the victim’s description, word for word, slowly, and clerk was sent to the stacks that filled the room from floor to ceiling.

“That’s better.”

Murdoch was fuming but hid it well, despite his reddened cheeks and ears. James could not chance giving him comfort in front of Bertillon. They may have been living in France freely under police sponsorship, one does not behave like an invert when in the heart of the Police judiciaire’s domain. An empathetic smile would have to do.

Pendrick knew that being an underling ate at William, though he would never admit it. He had once been the great William Murdoch, Toronto’s finest detective, the investigator with the highest arrest record in the history of the city, a man who had amply deserved the position of Station Inspector were it not for his Catholicism. Murdoch had accepted that, for his position had allowed him the freedom to exercise his mind in the pursuit of Justice, but also to experiment and invent to his heart’s desire. Now in Paris, where one's religion did not matter, William Gagnon would never rise in the ranks as payment for their arrangement with Police Prefect Lépine, and would never benefit from his ingenuity. William was a humble man, but Murdoch was minutely cognizant of his abilities, which were not as well used as they had been in Canada. It pained James to witness the waste. The forensic puzzles they were afforded satisfied both their intellects, for the most part, but Pendrick wished he could celebrate the former detective’s accomplishments like they had even two years prior.

Nevertheless, Julia, Robert and his brother being in town was something worth celebrating! Julia had mentioned staying at the Élysée-Palace. A fine choice. One of the newest, most modern hotels in all of France. He would write them a note tonight. Wistful, he remembered spending two restful nights at the hotel himself, shortly after its opening in 1898, during his last visit to Europe on business. A lonely time without William, mere months before their world had crumbled. How he regretted not having convinced his lover to accompany him then.

But this train of thought was maudlin and James pushed it aside, along with his rightful indignation. Better to focus on the clerk returning, file in hand.

It was a surveillance file on Albert Gaucher, the unemployed eldest son of Doctor Albert Gaucher, resident of 11, rue Saint-Pétersbourg, 8th arrondissement, age 32, unmarried.

Without a word to the clerk, Bertillon began walking back to his office, reading from the file out loud. Gaucher had come under suspicion after attending several socialist meetings over five years prior. Said surveillance had stopped after a few months when the elder Gaucher had prevailed upon his son of the necessity of distancing himself from those who would take away his wealth and property. The younger Gaucher had then chosen to transfer his interests to occultism and alchemy.”

“That’s it! That’s our man.” Murdoch exclaimed. Bertillon, who had clearly understood every word, ignored the comment.

Even Guillaume showed some of annoyance at the Director’s behaviour. “Monsieur, if you please,” he asked, “Is there any recent information?”

“Nothing for the past three years. He was no longer deemed a person of interest.”

They were turning into Bertillon’s corridor when a red-faced and panting gentleman of respectable age, standing at the other end of the passage, recognized the Director and shook his cane at them.

Bertillon grunted and accelerated his pace. Pendrick thought he heard an expletive.

“You know I hate it when you order me here, Bertillon. I don’t care for the climb either. You could have telephoned.”

“Do you have the file, Hallopeau?”

“Yes. Of course I do.” Shoving it at the Director: “Here. You know I only had time to make a cursory examination, do you not, and that I shouldn’t have found a cause of death this quickly?”

Shouldn’t. The irate gentleman, a medical examiner no doubt, had used the conditional.

Guillaume asked: “But you do know the cause of death?”

“Who are you?” The older man glared for a moment, but did not wait for an answer and continued his rant. “Can I enter you hallowed grounds, Bertillon, or must you make me stand in this corridor?”

Without waiting for permission, Hallopeau pushed the door, walked straight to the chair closest to the desk and huffed as he sat.

Pendrick entered the room last, closing the door behind him, while the cantankerous man, wondered loudly if all these people needed to be here too.

“They’re on the case, Hallopeau. I’m listening.”

“You don’t even have water for me? Why do I bother?”

“The case, Hallopeau.”

The man mumbled, “No need to thank me, either.” He pouted. “Your morning corpse died of heart arrest due to pulmonary edema, which was caused by extreme exposure to mercury vapours. I haven’t finished the internal examination, but I expect renal and liver inflammation, probably encephalitis too.”

Pendrick was confused. How did one get mercury poisoning in this day and age? A medical doctor’s son, no less. Not a dyer or a hatter either, but even then no one used mercury compounds in these trades anymore.

“If the post-mortem isn’t finished, how do you know?”

“Because of this one.” Hallopeau handed Bertillon another file. “This was Romain Gautier. He was brought to me last week from the 5th arrondissement. You’re lucky I got this body at all. He died of renal failure due to mercury poisoning, the worst case I have ever heard of – the first case I’d seen outside of a book until that day! You’ll note he had all the same superficial symptoms as today’s corpse: dermatitis, conjunctivitis, stomato-gingivitis...” The doctor’s rolled his eyes at his audience incomprehension and added, “ Scabs, inflammation of the eyes, inflammation of the mouth.”

“Does the Gautier file contain personal information?” Guillaume inquired.

Hallopeau shot the young investigator a foul look and waved to the papers now in Bertillon hand as an answer, before standing, readying his cane, and pointing with his free hand at the Director: “Next time, telephone me.” He exited the office and slammed the door.

Bertillon gave Guillaume an amused smile, adding “Hallopeau really is the best examiner at the Medical Faculty. You are lucky he found you this lead. Few would have caught on at all.”

Guillaume commented that the doctor was perhaps unnecessarily “bourru***” a word Pendrick did not know. He’d ask William later. Whatever it meant, it was true that working with the dead was not conducive to good manners. Julia being the beautiful exception.

Bertillon rose as well. “Messieurs, je vous laisse. You may take all the time you need to study the pertinent files, but they must not leave this office. I have a meeting with Lépine next and I will make sure to mention your work to him.”

With a cursory nod, Bertillon left them alone.

Murdoch straightened at once, moved to stand in front of the only unmarked chalk board in the room, and picked up a chalk stick. He wrote Romain Gautier at the top left and Albert Gaucher at the right. Prompted by his partner’s silent show of professionalism, Pendrick pulled his own notebooks from his jacket pocket in order to copy the board’s content.

“What do we know?”

Guillaume read aloud from the files, the deceased’s ages, addresses, cursory details, which Murdoch summarized. Other than being in their thirties, the men apparently had nothing in common. “Different education, different social classes... Gautier died in his apartment above his boutique on rue Graçieuse. He specialized in hair dyes. Hallopeau’s notes ask if mercury is used in that trade.”

Pendrick did not know, but he knew that even repeated topical contact with the metal didn’t lead to poisoning. Ingestion and aspiration of mercury compounds, such as nitrates, were quite dangerous, especially the latter. Any chemist knew that now. And neither he nor William dyed their hair in any case.

Murdoch had gone silent, his fine mind whirring in a way James knew so well, sifting through facts and possibilities in search of a pattern.

“Ha!” His observation was broken by Guillaume’s exclamation. “We have it! In Gautier’s wallet, found on his body, was an Initiation Certificate in a Martinist Order lodge. Deullin told me that they carry all Martinist publications – he was quite proud of it – and that the Hermetic school across the street from his bookstore was, in fact, founded by Martinists. He suggested we join.”

“Which lodge?” Pendrick and Murdoch asked in tandem.

“Le Sphynx.”

Murdoch began pacing, as was his way, mentally walking through a causation sequence. “Both are involved with spiritualism. Or rather some form of occultism. If both Gaucher and Gautier belonged to the same lodge... We need to find out if Gaucher was also a member of Le Sphynx. We need to figure out who to ask. Perhaps Deullin knows.”

“Or, we could ask Papus. He signed the certificate himself.”

Papus. Pendrick knew he rolled his eyes at the name. There was no escaping him, wasn’t there? Pendrick exchanged a knowing look with Murdoch who did not contain his exasperation, but then something occurred to James. He smiled at his hierarchical superior: “You should ask him yourself, Guillaume. You’re officially in charge anyway. The responsibility falls to you.”

William barely snorted but continued: “There are still a few unknowns. Gaucher was interested in alchemy and something called sparygia, a word I had never heard until today.”

Guillaume stood, lifting a hand and looking about the room. “Wait, Bertillon has a dictionary in here somewhere.” Less than a minute later, he’d found one on a side table. Flipping through the Larousse, he found the word: “ _Sparigie_ : ‘An old term for chemistry’.”

“Chemistry as in alchemy, of course.”

Pendrick took the floor. Chemistry was his expertise, after all. One of many. “What I would bet on is that somehow their forays into alchemy led them to the use of mercury, specifically mercury compounds that can be aerosolized. I cannot fathom why they would do that, unfortunately. But then again, if they fancy themselves alchemists, anything is possible. They could have eaten antimony instead. As far as I’m concerned, it simply doesn’t make sense that those men would have be exposed to mercury vapours since neither of them are felters or dry cleaners. So it must have been willful exposure. ”

Murdoch nodded in understanding, but Guillaume radiated confusion.

“Come on, Guillaume, everyone knows about mad hatters.”

“ What mad hatters? No. What is your point?”

Now, James was confused. So was William. Did not every child now know about how felters lost their minds on mercury vapours? And threw mad tea parties as a result?

“Do you not know _Alice in Wonderland_?” He'd said the title in English. “The book by Lewis Carroll.” Guillaume shook his head.

“Never heard of it. It’s English. I don’t read novels in English. It’s a waste of time.”

Murdoch sounded just as stunned as their colleague's ignorance. “Well, _Alice in Wonderland_ is quite a famous book. I’ve read it more than once. And everyone knows the Mad Hatter is mad because of mercury.”

“I’ve never heard of this book. Perhaps it was never translated.”****

Pendrick conceded the point, nodding. “In any case, Gaucher’s aberrant behaviour in the last moments of his life would be consistent with mercury poisoning. We need to find out if Gautier lost his mind in the end as well.”

“Because mercury causes madness, you say. I see. All right, you two finish copying what we can from these files before Bertillon returns and expels us. Until them I will use Bertillon’s telephone to call the investigator on file for Gautier... which is Cardin at the Jardins-des-Plantes commissariat. He should still be there at this hour.”

Guillaume paused, in his typical dramatic manner, his lips forming the assured smile: “We’ll solve this, Messieurs. We’re the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Bertillon’s office can be seen here:  
> https://criminocorpus.org/media/filer_public/60/39/60396069-4374-4dc8-b252-2839bffae43a/13b.jpg
> 
> ** The files room can be seen here: https://journals.openedition.org/criminocorpus/docannexe/image/3632/img-6-small580.jpg
> 
> ***Gruff, surly, brusque.
> 
> **** In 1901, _Alice in Wonderland_ had been translated in French, as _Alice aux pays des merveilles_ in London by Henri Bué at the request of Lewis Carroll himself, but the book had remained an underground success, only known by Anglophiles, occultists and spiritualists, including those mentioned in this story. The first popular printing in French was in 1908.


	9. 9. Julia

I’m not certain what I was expecting. James sent word to us on that Saturday – well, he wrote the message, but they both signed it – asking if we were willing to meet them at their dwelling on the Sunday for lunch. The note was short, direct, much like all of James’s messages in the past. It was remarkable for one detail. The note emphasized, strongly, that should we choose to come to their 18th arrondissement address, we should take care to dress plainly. The request was puzzling in its insistence. Both Paul and I had spent some time on the Butte Montmartre, famously situated in the 18th arrondissement, like all tourists visiting the city were wont to do. Dressing plainly for the Can-Can was not something one did. However, asking the concierge about transportation clarified matters instantly. The man blanched when we told him we needed transportation to that address. Why would people of quality, he asked us, wish to go to such a downtrodden neighbourhood? I don’t remember what excuse we gave; only that he accepted our word. Yet, the concierge’s reaction certainly convinced us to take James’s request to heart.

Which is how we fond ourselves at 19, rue Marc-Séguin, a solid and modern brick building, which stood singularly among a conglomeration of houses ranging from Ancien Régime farm houses to Second Empire apartments, with the odd medieval remnant in between, on a crowded street among many such streets, not unlike the Easternmost segments of London or Toronto’s Ward.

We soon found that even at our humblest, Paul and I still stood out terribly. I wore my grey travelling dress and hat, and Paul his brown tweed suit, but we still looked like the well-to-do foreigners that we were. From the glares we were gathering, we would be the talk of the neighbourhood for some time.

Colin had claimed fatigue and excused himself from the outing. We would know why soon enough but at the time I thought he’d chosen to give us privacy with our long-lost friends.

The metal front gate opened to a robust but wizened woman, who stated we were expected, that “les garçons” were home, but that perhaps we should climb the stairs slowly and loudly. Of course, Paul’s condition would not allow us to do any differently. His limbs were quite stiff and unmanageable that day. She pointed to a door, stating we should go up one flight and to the right. So we took our time.

As I said, I wasn’t certain what I expected in seeing out friends in their new life and their new home. It certainly wasn’t the Pendrick Estate. Would their home resemble William’s rooms at Mrs. Kitchen’s boarding house? I had not imagined the good-sized room, lit by two high windows and two parallel strings of electric bulbs snaking along the coved ceiling. The room itself was dominated by a massive wooden table abutting the front wall and nearly covered by well-ordered piles of papers, drafting materials, measuring tools, boxes filled with mechanical parts and wires. The free end had four simple table settings awaiting diners. Along the far wall were a few machines I couldn’t identify and what looked like a common icebox with tubes and cables coming out the back. There was also something that might have once been an electric fan, hanging above a small coal stove, which would normally be used for heating rather than cooking, though there was a steaming pot on it.

But no matter. It’s not what you want to hear about! Well, first I must admit that Paul and I must have arrived at an inopportune time. James opened the door only after our second knock, in his shirt sleeves, vasodilation evident, pupils dilated, and elevated respiration. Clear signs of arousal, as you know. William appeared from one of two doors on the opposite wall, closing it behind him, and also visibly flushed. Yes, they must have been engaged in conjugal activities when we arrived. I surmised that their landlady had known and had instructed us accordingly. Embarrassment was palpable, as you can imagine, but propriety demanded we elect to distract ourselves from the topic immediately. James reacted first.

“Welcome, welcome to our humble home!” He bid us inside, kissed me on the cheeks the French way. William voiced his welcome as well, while pulling a straight-backed chair for Paul, whom he helped sit before shaking his hand. Only then did he hug me tightly.

Still holding my shoulders, he gave me a very discreet once over. So did I, I admit, still in awe over his perfectly-groomed moustache, but we caught ourselves soon enough and reverted to proper behaviour.

“Forgive the mess,” he said, gesturing to the table and blushing once more, “there’s nowhere else to put it.”

The mechanical “mess” was such a perfect metaphor of both their personalities, so much like the metal maze in their office back in Toronto, I had to dismiss their apology. There, in front of me, was a concentrated version of their shared obsessions, for tinkering, for invention. I started saying so, but found a lump in my throat. I simply burst into tears then, quite against my will. Not out of grief, no. It was relief! My friends, alive, happy, inventing. But William misinterpreted my emotion.

“Please, Julia. Don’t... Don’t cry for us. I know we live humbly, but we are not in dire straights. Julia, we’re fine!”

I was too stricken to answer, so he guided me to another chair James magicked beside Paul’s. Soon, we were all sat in a tight circle, Paul and William each holding my hand and my discomfiture diminished, though the sobs still left me mute.

“We’ve, Julia and I, both worried about you, since your... abrupt departure. I can admit to having imagined the worst of circumstances. To see you now is an answer to our most desperate prayers.”

When I finally contained myself, I quipped I had never thought the great James Pendrick would find himself a renter. He faked affront.

“I most certainly am not! I own this building!” He laughed, “Well. One ‘James Beckett’ owns it, but that’s a small detail. I purchased it from Madame Meyer, whom you’ve met downstairs. She sold it under the proviso she would continue to occupy her lodgings of over twenty years, free of charge, if she continued to act as the building’s concierge. I pay her a stipend, quite enough to live well in her last years. In return, she no longer has to worry about maintenance costs or collecting rent.”

“Madame Meyer has no family to take her in and we needed a place to live. We gave her some security and she kind of adopted us in return.”

“An equitable arrangement,” Paul commented. “She called you her boys.”

They laughed at this, nodding, sharing a fond look.

“She knows about us, as you may have guessed. She is remarkably protective.”

“Too true! She will not tolerate any negative comment about us in her presence.” But mirth soon evaporated from William’s face: “It’s strange... We seem to have been accepted by just about everyone around here. It is... unexpected.”

“I only wish we didn’t have to use pseudonyms, for this and for my other Paris property. We have an arrangement with the Parisian Police — we’re legitimate residents, now — but when we first arrived in France, we were living here illegally.”

Illegally? The thought had not occurred to me at the time, but of course they could not have used their real names, having fled Canada. Still, William Murdoch, breaking the law? The thought was baffling!

I wanted to know everything, how they had managed their escape from Toronto, how they had healed, made their way to safety. It took hours for them to recount it all, first over a rich bœuf bourguignon, then a truly sinful chocolate flan, red wine and hearty bread throughout. It was a truly archetypal French meal where conversation took centre stage. They told us how they’d survived in the Montreal countryside during dark winter months, their arrival in France, their wrangling of properties and monies to ensure some security, while trying to find occupations. The soul sucking circumstances leading to the queerest of happenstances, finally leading to their being gainfully employed by the very Gendarmerie they had hoped to avoid. That was worthy of a novel! I’ll tell you one day. All I wanted to know then, though, was whether they were happy.

“So, as you can see, we live simply, mostly because we’d rather not attract too much attention. And it allows us to squirrel away most of our revenue in my accounts in Switzerland. My old hôtel privé on the Jardin du Luxembourg I still own under pseudonym – I sold it to myself actually. I let it to some chap named d’Orléans who doesn’t mind the ungodly amount I charge him.”

“If we’re careful, with investments and patents, we could become independent of means once again in just over a decade. I’ll admit I didn’t understand any of James’s plans at first.” He turned to his lover then, joined their hands, and whispered, “James hid a lot from me during those first few months.”

There was silence for a moment as they communicated what I thought were apologies.

“I was lost,” James admitted.

“We were both mourning. Our lives, our names, our careers. James certainly wasn’t physically recovered, even if he denied it. We would have required your services, Paul, you can be certain of that! But we crawled out of our melancholy after a time. Together.”

Paul had remained mostly silent since our arrival, studying them I think. Finally he said, “I have no words. I am gratified to witness you interacting like this. You touch freely. You demonstrate overt affection for each other. Despite all you’ve endured, Paris has been good for you. You never could have behaved so intimately in public in Toronto. Even at home in friendly company, you were never so demonstrative as you are now. It warms my heart to witness your affection. Thank you for this gift.”

They looked to each other in agreement, before William coughed away his emotion.

“We still have to be discreet, of course. Though perhaps differently than before. We are employed by the Police, after all. Homosexuality is not illegal here, but it is nevertheless objectionable. As police specialists, we cannot appear to engage in impropriety.”

“I know we are not included in the Régistre des Pédérastres; Police Prefect Lépine assured us of that. But we must stay far away from the venues known to welcome inverts and we always take care never to be alone with children. So as not to raise suspicion.”

The remark was made so offhandedly, but I was scandalized in their stead. Never would they behave in such an evil way towards children! I sputtered in indignation, which made our friends laugh. It was not the reaction I was expecting.

“Julia, my dear. Don’t be angry on our behalf. This is a small price to pay for our freedom. So what! We can’t go to dance halls! I do miss dancing, of course, but it is a small sacrifice for freedom and security, don’t you think?”

“Besides, we never frequented those venues back in Toronto. Why would we want to here?”

They were right. Of course, they knew better than I did what behaviour they needed to uphold. I simply did not relish the implications. I had missed them so and wanted their life to be worry free. But now the conversation had turned sour. My mind churned to find a happier matter to discuss, but James beat me to it.

“Never mind that. You know our story. Let’s hear yours.”

“Yes, indeed! What are you both doing in Paris? Mr. Harms, is it, said it was complicated.”

It was not the happier topic I had hoped to find, but they deserved our truth from us, no matter how unfortunate. It was Paul’s story to tell, so I touched his knee in encouragement. 

“I believe you surmised that I am ill.” Our friends nodded. Paul had used his tin goblet and a spoon throughout the meal that night and had still struggled. “Last year, I was diagnosed Huntington’s Chorea.”

“The degenerative nerve condition,” William recognized.

“Yes. You’ve noticed the jerks, surely. It’s heritable. My father had it.”

James exhaled loudly.

“I am so sorry. I don’t know what to say. My father’s childhood friend, Mr. Wells, suffered from this, I think. It was kept quiet.”

“It would have been. There is some stigma associated with the condition. The mental instability in the latter stages is quite distasteful. But...” My husband’s emotions were close to the surface, I knew. “One has to play with the cards one is dealt. Because my time is counted, we chose to marry sooner rather than later and make the best of the time we have.”

“And we are putting this time to good use,” I continued. “We have been on a Grand Tour of sorts, first to America and now through Europe, consulting with the finest medical minds on the topic.”

“The outlook is less than optimistic, unfortunately. Still we aim to discuss the latest research avenues with as many renown specialists as we can. The famous Doctor Osler himself suggested this, in fact.”

“He’s authored a monograph on Huntington’s Chorea a few years ago, you see, and as far as he knows, any currently available treatment would be futile.”

“But, he also advised us that if anyone had found a usable path of treatment, they would not have published the results yet and that an in-person examination of my case could, perhaps, could provide tangible results.”

“So here we are!”

“My brother Colin joined us in Germany. Having family with us has been good. As much as having a third scientific mind on the project.”

William edged forward on his seat, a careful expression on his face. I knew what he wanted to know.

“May I ask, you call Mr. Harms your brother, but...”

“Professor Harms. We’re step brothers. He was born of my mother’s first marriage. She was widowed while Colin was an infant. He’s never known another father than ours.”

“Then, he is not afflicted by the disease,” James deduced.

“No. However, I believe he is still quite affected by having watched our father waste and die while we were still young men.

And how was he affected! I suspected, but had not known how much at the time.

“There is a desperation in Colin, especially now...” I didn’t want to admit it; I couldn’t.

“Now that my condition has worsened so rapidly in recent weeks. I don’t think he is prepared for me to suffer the same fate.”

Silence fell once again, heavy and awkward. Desperate to escape this cloak of misery, I stated the first thing that came to mind.

“In any case, when we found each other, day before last, we had just met with one of those so-called experts. But a true quack! Named Gérard Encausse, and...”

I never finished my sentence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lateness of the chapter. Julia and Paul were stuck at the front door and I could not make them move. And the chapter turned out to be longer then expected. I've cut it in two.


	10. 10. William

William was willing to admit that their quite explosive reaction had been exaggerated. He’d exclaimed rather loudly, he knew. James, who was the more exuberant one, had been even more demonstrative. He’d shot up, thrown his hands in the air and groaning, a few choice expletives escaping as he grabbed at this hair.

The convolutions of their current case, of the past two days, had been multiplied by the grating realization that this man Papus could not be avoided, his involvement somehow certain. What had started with the seemingly accidental death of a deranged man had transformed into circumstances the likes of which William could never have imagined. It all reminded him of George’s most fanciful stories. Occultists, alchemy and heavy metal poisonings. It made so little sense.

Poor Julia and Paul sat stumped and wide-eyed. Blushing, William shook his head, avoiding looking at James, hoping for control of his sudden anger. No doubt their friends had thought the anecdote would be comical, not infuriating.

“Please forgive us, Julia. It’s nothing you did.” After a beat, he added, “Papus is a contentious topic at the moment.”

“That’s an understatement, my dear,” James barked in return.

William gestured his lover to sit back down. Contrite, he began, “Let us explain. The case we are working on is...”

“Odd,” James proposed.

“Yes, odd. We – well, Marcel Guillaume, James and I – are trying to reconstruct the reasons behind two deaths by mercury poisoning. Papus, Encausse, seems to be a central figure in the affair, but we can’t quite pinpoint how.”

“Perhaps he is involved directly. We don’t know. He is a medical doctor, as you know, and fancies himself a scientist, but he is far from the most scientific mind to deal with.”

James had grumbled the last sentence. They had elected to witness Guillaume’s interview with Encausse the previous day, and staying silent had been an ordeal.

Julia released a audible puff, perhaps a nervous laugh. Paul nodded in agreement.

“What are the odds that our reasons for visiting Paris would lead us to your investigation? We’ve not heard of each other in two years.”

William quelled his instinct to correct Julia’s assertion that the investigation was theirs. They were not police officers. Only analysts. Specialists. And Guillaume wasn’t even an official investigator.

“It’s all rather improbable, isn’t it?”

Still, William gathered they might act on this particular happenstance. He willed James to understand what he was thinking. James nodded in return.

“Perhaps, Julia, Paul, you could tell us about your meeting with Encausse.”

“And we’ll tell you what we can of the investigation in return.”

Their friends too exchanged a silent word, and Paul began the tale.

“We met him at Colin’s suggestion. They’ve been correspondents for some time and he’s met with him several times since we’ve arrived in Paris three weeks ago. Colin is a chemist, a professor at the Polytechnische in Zurich. His recent research has focused on testing the validity of historical theories about matter. He’s been able to prove that some medieval understandings of chemistry were in fact valid discoveries that were later forgotten. Most medieval theories are unspeakably wrong, of course, but a few could be useful today. The subject is certainly esoteric.”

“Esoterism led Harms to Papus?”

“Yes. There is always the risk of running into men of delusion rather than men of science. But the few true experts on medieval alchemy are not historians. They’re men like Encausse, occultists who believe that supernatural secrets can be had using the trappings of the scientific method.”

“As it happens, Colin knew Encausse was a medical doctor and that he’d been investigating medieval cures. He found his first meetings with him to be promising. To be honest, we were curious to hear his theories too.”

“The fact is Papus has successfully recreated medieval experiments using modern technology.”

“So, Professor Harms thought Papus had found a cure for your chorea?”

“Papus told him so. It was a possibility we couldn’t ignore. Please understand, most medicines from that period were ineffective at best, deadly at worst. However, some very real modern medical advances had been known in the Middle Ages but later forgotten. Take salicylic acid. Willow bark infusions have been known for centuries. Those people had not known then they were essentially brewing Aspirin. Bayer company simply modernized and industrialized the process by producing acetylsalicylic acid.”

A hundred questions ran through William’s mind, while James was chewing his cheek. Professor Harms certainly had a strange approach to modern science, one William knew would irk his future-oriented love.

“How did the meeting go?”

“Horribly! Papus may be a medical doctor, but is he completely diluted!”

What a relief! James stood once more, only to lean on the table edge, crossing his arms.

“We were quite shocked at his incompetence.”

“Colin met with Encausse a few times, first without our knowledge, to discuss my case. He said he’d not wanted to get our hopes up unnecessarily. Apparently, Encausse convinced my brother he could provide a cure and arranged a consultation.” Embarrassment clouded Paul’s features: “Please understand, Colin is not a physician, only a chemist. He would not have known Encausse was spewing nonsense.”

William sighed heavily. A conclusion was biting at his thoughts, but he would not let it form yet. He would not let himself form the thought. Time was to reveal the content of the investigation.

“We met with Papus yesterday. Specifically, we needed to know how closely he is implicated in the fatal poisoning of two men. He is a founding member of an occult society, the Martinist Order. Apparently, each lodge has a distinct directive and each recruit members who can specifically advance it. Le Sphynx, the lodge he heads, exists for the purpose of what he calls scientific research into alchemy and the occult.”

“Both times we’ve met him,” James clipped, “at a conference last year and yesterday, he tried to make a case for the scientific study of divine knowledge forgotten from Ancient Times. Talking about tinctures and quintessences! You know me, I am a metalurgical engineer. I understand chemistry. What Papus is raving about is not science!”

Their guests chuckled. James had taken Encausse’s fanciful assertions as a personal affront since that first lecture. Yesterday had been an exercise in patience, but it now seemed these assertions had dire implications.

“Have no fear. The second Encausse voiced his contentions, we knew it was a mistake to meet him. He believes Huntington’s Chorea is caused by mercury hematosis, which is preposterous.”

“And physically impossible. That is not how mercury is metabolized.”

Mercury. William started at the word, the dreadful conclusion now screaming in his mind. James moved back to his seat, leaning forward in marked interest.

“Mercury, Julia?”

“It’s ridiculous, but I guess it’s possible for the non-specialist to misunderstand.”

William certainly was not a specialist.

“To the uninitiated,” Julia explained, “the symptoms of Huntington’s Chorea could appear to resemble those of chronic mercury exposure. Both present spasmotic movements. Both are degenerative. Both conditions lead to increased emotional imbalance, melancholy and delusions, culminating in destructive behaviour and insanity in the latter stages.”

“But these similarities,” Paul continued, “do not bear analysis. Huntington’s causes uncontrolled movements, which are characteristically jerky and irregular. Mercury poisoning causes regular movements sin the form of trembling. The melancholy and destructive behaviour which appear in the latter stages of Huntington patients are due to despair at the knowledge that wasting and death are inevitable. With mercury, the brain itself is impaired. The paranoia and violence are the result of lesions and inflammation in the brain itself.”

“I’d have thought a medical doctor would understand the difference, but Encausse clearly doesn’t. But my brother-in-law could not have seen the signs. He seemed quite perturbed by the whole affair, once he realized his mistake.”

“He’s embarrassed. We have not seen much of him since Friday.”

William felt a chill descend upon him at the realization. This did not bode well. Not at all. He could not escape his dreadful conclusion.

“Paul, please listen. Both victims were Le Sphynx members. Members of an occult lodge that aims to do ‘research’. Both knew Encausse personally. Both died of mercury poisoning, the very metal Encausse posits is what’s ailing you. And both died within three weeks of your arrival in the city. After Professor Harms first met with Encausse, more than once, about your condition. Do you understand what this may mean?”

Their guests knew, of course, they both knew. Consternation and shock were blatant in their blanching cheeks and ramrod backs. Professor Colin Harms was very likely involved in the deaths of two men, equally if not more that Gérard Encausse himself. Something terrible must have happened.

They continued to discussed the terrible possibilities well into the night. When they could no longer think straight, James cleared the bed in what they called the ‘Other room’, so their friends could rest. William heard him bid them good night from their own bedroom. Julia was crying. No one slept well that night. 

Tomorrow would not bring joy.


	11. 11. William

William woke up as the first inklings of dawn filtered through the window. The night had been short, getting to bed late and only falling asleep after James’s breathing had evened out. His beloved was still sleeping soundly, his head tucked against William’s shoulder, regular puffs of warm breath against his skin. William tightened his arms around his beloved, soaking in the quiet. He did not relish the coming day.

Yesterday had been a whirlwind of emotion: their reunion with Julia and Paul, the recounting of their flight to Paris, learning of Paul’s illness, its inevitable prognosis. And the revelation they had all stumbled upon the same two murders somehow. Strong emotion has always been the bane of William’s career. In times of turmoil, he never couldn’t think clearly, couldn’t remain detached, and Reason floundered. He knew the truth of his own guilt in their flight from Toronto. His visible devastation during the Gillies disaster had revealed so much to those who never should have known his inclinations. William recalled his last conversation with Inspector Brackenreid, the finality of it, the certainty that as a man in love, his overt fear for James had condemned them both to goal. Gripping emotion was a hindrance to the work of a policeman.

Now, in the coming light of a new day, he could at least string his thoughts properly.

Julia, Paul, and Harms had been in Paris three weeks and two days. Harms had revealed to his brother that he’d spoken with Dr. Gérard Encausse twice in the first week of their stay, the first in a public meeting of the Sphynx Martinist lodge on rue Savoie the day after their arrival. In the meeting, Encausse had begun presenting his so-called theory that Paul’s Chorea was simply a variant of acute mercury poisoning, though he declared it still unproven. Despite the lack of definitive proof, he expressed the conviction Paul could be cured if his body were purged of deleterious compounds, and that such purge would be beneficial, even if mercury was not the direct cause. His faith in medieval pharmacopoeia was absolute. At a third meeting with Encausse, over lunch the week previous, the two men had discussed how this purge would occur. Apparently, it would have included a series of raw seawater baths, sulphur plasters and enemas concocted with bear leeks and coriander. It all seemed quite barbaric. Julia had been livid when Encausse had proposed it to her at their consultation. 

To Reason, it seemed quite clear that Encausse was involved in the deaths of two of his fellow lodge members, if only because the whole affair centred around mercury poisoning. Two men dying of exactly what Papus imagined Paul was suffering? It could not be a simple coincidence. Two men dead within weeks of Harms discussing it with him? Reason placed Encausse at the centre of the affair, a mastermind using his lodge brothers as subjects for his outrageous medical experiments. Encausse must have used them to prove his theories, in the hopes of helping Paul, and they had suffered the most dire consequences, with Harms perhaps an unwitting accomplice. Encausse would need to be arrested post haste. Guillaume would agree the minute they informed him of these findings.

Yet, William doubted. His instincts screamed against his rational mind. For all of Encausse’s ridiculous beliefs in the supernatural and medieval cures, he seemed almost inoffensive. Diluted and fanciful, but mostly harmless. The man was nothing short of infuriating to the scientific mind, and listening to his ideas was a challenge to one’s patience. Yet, he did not strike William as a murderer. Two days before, at his office on rue de Savoie, Gagnon and Beckett had served as silent witnesses, while Marcel Guillaume asked Encausse salient questions about his dead lodge brothers. Throughout the interview, Papus had been both genial and solicitous. Further, he had seemed genuinely devastated at the death of Gaucher and Gautier, while providing alibis for most of the events in this affair. These were yet to be confirmed.

More importantly, however, the interview had shown a man very much interested in solving modern problems with simple, down-to-earth solutions, and searching for the Divine in a time when technology and industry obscured Him. Papus sought to work for the betterment of Man, whether that meant better hygiene among the poor or the magnetization of Mr. Eiffel’s tower. The reasoning behind his assertions were often laughable, evidently, but benign. How could such a man have killed, or at least wilfully led to the death of two lodge brothers? It seemed unlikely.

This confused William’s mind, unable to reconcile the dichotomy between cold fact and gut feeling.

James voice, gravely from sleep, broke the silence.

“Thinking about Harms?”

“What? No. Well, yes. Papus mostly.”

James sighed, snuggling into him, lips brushing William’s clavicle.

“You want him arrested. I can see why you would.”

“Of course. He’s the most likely suspect. Don’t you think so?”

James lifted his head from William’s shoulder, turning on his stomach. His hair, askew from sleep, strangely amplified the tightness around his eyes, his pinched mouth. William knew that expression: to most, it would denote mere discontent. To William, it belied a deeper turmoil. A long sigh escaped his lover.

“Encausse is a clown, but he is also a coward. Harms, on the other hand, is desperate.”

Julia had said as much, and Paul had agreed.

“But desperate enough to kill?”

“Desperate enough to move Heaven and Earth.”

William wanted to object, but James’s eyes stopped him.

“I know. We met Harms all of five minutes. How could I be so certain?” With a gesture on concession, he continued. “I know men like Harms. Harvard produces droves of men like Harms. The _Polytechnische_ is filled with men like Harms, brilliant and knowledgeable and eager to merge the most divergent fields of research to advance science. Looking for Knowledge and Glory both. They do so everyday, successfully. Men like Harms rush head on into any scientific problem that strikes their fancy. It does not matter they don’t know the first thing about whatever field of science they’ve stumbled upon. They simply know they will succeed in their endevours because they are convinced of their own genius. This conviction is usually well founded.”

That sounded familiar. Startlingly familiar.

“Yes, I see you recognize from which I speak. Men like me. There is one quality we tend to lack, William, and it’s humility. You remember how I used to be, certain of my intellect, of my charm, of my success. Not an ounce of doubt in my abilities, no matter the challenge. Inevitably, this trait leads to one moral fault or another. In my case, it led to a complete lack of sympathy for my fellow man.”

“No, that’s not true. Don’t say that. You wanted to make the world better with your inventions.”

James scoffed, “I wanted to make money. I wanted fame.” He cradled William’s cheek with his left hand. “You are an amorous fool, my love. Have you forgotten the business with the Eugenics Society? Even if I never sought to sterilize the populace for the greater good of Man, I had no qualms with the idea of allowing the rich and powerful to engineer themselves and their children into a superior species. I hoped to do it myself.”

William wanted to object, that his lover was never so callous, so greedy, but he recalled their confrontations when they'd first met; he had thought James a criminally-minded man back then for a reason.

“You taught me humility, my love, and with it the means to think my theories through to their moral consequences.” James grabbed his shoulders tightly, “But William, understand this: had we loved each other ten years ago, and an illness had befallen you? Nothing would have stopped me from finding a cure. No law, no prescription, no divine interdiction.”

The pronouncement felt like a slap. The realization of the depth of James’s love, yes, just as much as his certainty about his character.

“You think Harms killed those men?”

“I can't say if he did. However, I think a scientific man like Harms, reeling with desperation for his cherished brother, might not mind the deaths of two men if it provided a cure.”

The truth of James’s words echoed in the silence. But they complemented his own reflections, did they not? It was possible Encausse was not directly party to this. Could it all be the work of a man hopelessly trying to save his last living relative?

Speculation. William’s instincts were screaming in agreement, but it was all speculation!

“We need more information. We need facts.” James sighed and bowed his head at William’s words, no doubt believing his thoughts dismissed. That would not do: “No, no! I agree with you. But we need proof. Not only because of due process. We owe it to Julia and Paul. Especially Paul.”

James nodded once, sat up, moving to stand. “Then we need to get this proof as fast as possible.” Walking to his dresser, he pulled fresh underclothes. “Shall we?”

**Author's Note:**

> Do you know how fun it is to look up tea sellers in Paris in 1900? Or where one would buy English-language engineering books? It's super fun is what it is! As with my previous two installments, this story is as historically accurate as can be and still be fiction. Streets, adresses, historical characters and events are accurate for 1900-01.


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